


Tomorrow

by Jabberwockette



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jabberwockette/pseuds/Jabberwockette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had happened before he realized it, but far too late to stop it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wanting

**Author's Note:**

> These two are ruining my life. They will not leave me alone with their sad, beautiful restraint. Might be a one-shot, might have more. We'll see what the voices say. (The first chapter of this fic was originally posted in February 2013, uploading here for completeness.)

He wasn't quite sure when it happened.

After the war, certainly, but the seeds were there before.

It probably started when she'd talked to him about Joe Burns. That was the first time he'd realized how much he cared. They'd worked together for years by then — he was already Butler when she came to Downton as head housemaid, and then a few years later she stepped into the role of housekeeper as smoothly as if she'd been a Mrs. all her life. They were perfectly in sync, from day one, but he'd not given it much of a thought until she told him about her former suitor.

He remembered saying something like _"What would be the point of living if we didn't let life change us?"_ But what he really remembered was thinking, _she's staying, she's staying with us_ , and that was the thought that brought a spring to his step.

But that wasn't when he'd fallen in love with her. No. Even then she was still… what? She was always more than a co-worker, but 'friend' wasn't quite the right word either. Nor was 'sisterly', or anything else too familial. He'd always been fond of her and, he thought, she of him. They were equals in every way. She was marvellously intelligent, as organized as he was. She was a better manager of people, both firm and gentle with their downstairs charges. There had always been mutual respect and affection, but they had also never been afraid of disagreement. They disagreed; they worked it out. Friends, then. Or maybe... successful business partners? It still seemed to diminish their relationship, but maybe that was the best he could do for a label.

So when had this happened? When had he started to find himself mesmerized by the way she moved, by the subtle expressions of her eyes? When had her smile started to make him catch his breath?

He sat back in his chair in the servant's hall, eyes closed while the worker bees swirled around him. He thought back to when he'd almost left for Haxby.

 _"Don't tell me you'll miss me"_ , he'd said with a self-deprecating smile.

_"I will, Mr. Carson. Very much. And it costs me nothing to say it."_

No, not then either, though it's true he'd been deeply moved. Not even when she'd nursed him through exhaustion and Spanish Flu during the war. Not even when they'd consoled one another over wine after the loss of young William Mason.

_"The music is gone, Mr. Carson. And I feel tonight as though it may never return. I will miss that dear boy."_

_"There will always be music, Mrs. Hughes, as long as we remember him."_

She had smiled at him then, the tears not quite spilling over. _"Yes. Yes, you're right. I'll remember the music, then."_ He recalled that he'd briefly thought he'd like to wipe those unshed tears from her eyes. He'd handed her his handkerchief. Poured them both another glass of wine.

But no, still not even then.

* * *

_It was definitely after the war_. It was quiet downstairs now, late evening. He was doing a final check before retiring to his pantry for an hour and then to bed.

Her cancer scare had probably been the thing that had made him look at her closely. _Really_ look at her this time. Notice the lines in her face and the silver in her hair. Notice the way she held herself tall and maintained the highest standards even when she was privately falling apart.

Noticed the fear that clenched at his heart at the thought of her not being at his side.

She'd become bolder. Such fighting spirit. She taunted him and rolled her eyes at him and defied him and no longer made apologies. She'd come through the war, then the fear of death and the relief of life and it was as though she'd rediscovered something deep inside that made her even stronger. That deep-seated dislike he'd always felt in her for the class system that defined their lives was coming out more these days. But she had always had it. The Dowager Countess had always been "The old bat". She hadn't batted an eyelash at Lady Sybil in the kitchen with Daisy and Mrs. Patmore. She had always, always been fond of Tom - _Mr. -_ Branson and his revolutionary tendencies.

And then there was Ethel. She'd put the girl out of the house herself, but then went out of her way to help her despite it.

Maybe she could stand the constant reminder of what Ethel had become, but he could not. She wouldn't know the feeling of having fallen so low as to pay some desperate creature to serve you in that way; that was a man's prerogative. Then came the shame that followed from taking what you needed — but never what you really wanted — from a poor, destitute thing _(not 'girls', not 'women', no, they could not be thought of as that, it would be too close to the girls and women one counted as family, colleagues, friends)_ who would warm your bed for the cost of a meal. He'd only reached that level of need a handful of times in his life; last addressed it on a half-day off during the Season in London some years ago, where anonymity and no complications were assured. He never stayed longer than he had to, was always kind and gentle, always gave them extra, always paid for a room for a whole night and told them they could stay after he left, be warm and safe for a bit. But how could he ever look Ethel in the eyes again when she could have been any one of those lost souls? No. He could acknowledge the hypocrisy, but could not stare it in the eye and welcome it in to the house for tea and a chat.

But _her…._ she saw the wrongness and the hypocrisy in the system that she was required to live within and then did what she could to help mend it, even at risk to herself, while he simply stood by and watched, out of shame, out of fear of change.

If anything, they were becoming even less alike than they ever had been, and yet it felt as though the more it happened, the further he fell. When she'd come to him that devastating night of Lady Sybil's death, it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and breathe her in, her warmth, her life.

He hadn't dared. The sudden need had almost overwhelmed him and he _knew_ then. Knew what was happening to his heart, knew that surely it would never have been enough.

He was outside her parlour now. He stopped, leaned back against the wall of the hallway near her door, closed his eyes and remembered once more.

She'd taken his hands and he'd taken hers, held on to them for dear life, and they'd shed tears together for the loss of one of their charges — for they were all, upstairs and down, "their" charges. No wine that night. No words. Their eyes did not meet. Just tears and the touch of hands.

Somewhere in these last few months it had happened. And now? Now he was lost. She had only to enter the room and he was mesmerized. He hid it well, he thought, behind curmudgeonly bluster, gentle and (he winced at the thought) not-so-gentle rebukes and stubborn persistence, lest he slip and give himself away. They'd been this… whatever it was… for so long, and it was comfortable. So easy. He couldn't risk losing that.

Could he?

It was as though, in her own awakening, she had awoken something in him as well. Something he'd thought he'd lost, gotten over, left behind with his old life before Downton. Something that had until now been sated by this comfortable, platonic partnership.

He wanted.

Wanted to fall apart in her arms, under her touch. Wanted to hear her whisper, plead, cry, beg for him.

Wanted to beg himself.

Wanted to kiss her until she couldn't stand, and then sweep her up and carry her off. Wanted her to tell him what she wanted, what to do. To serve and adore her, worship her, rest his head at her breast. To have her sit at his right hand as she always had, but with the knowledge that they were one, and always would be. Wanted to tell her _she was right, damn her,_ about the times changing, about Ethel, about everything, but _by God he was right too_ — it was changing too fast and they needed to slow it down, lest they all lose themselves in the tidal wave.

Wanted to let it all go, let them navigate this strange and wonderful new thing together, and all the things to come.

God, how he _wanted_.

"Did you want something, Mr. Carson?"

 _Her voice._ His eyes snapped open. She was… well, of course she was here. He was still leaning against the wall outside her parlour door as if he'd been waiting for her.

"I… Mrs. Hughes. My apologies. I was just… resting my eyes while I waited for you."

Her brow arched and her _(lovely, sweet mercy, so lovely)_ mouth curled up in what he knew was prelude to jest. "Resting your eyes. Of course. Is the constant brightness of the electric lights still that tiring for you? I'd have thought you'd long since adjusted to it. Would you like a headache powder?"

"Wretched woman with your mocking," he said, but he was smiling at her, and her own smile widened until the dimples appeared. He straightened, looked away from her to recover himself before he lost his train of thought completely.

"I wanted to let you know I've finished locking up, and to see if there was anything else you needed before I turn in for the night." He stifled a yawn.

"Thank you, but no. I think everything is as ready for tomorrow as it'll ever be." She sounded tired herself.

He nodded, finally meeting her eyes again. She was beginning to blink sleepily. It had been a long day. "Very well, then. I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, Mr. Carson."

Silence. And yet, neither turned away. They remained there, unmoving, two sleepy people in a dark hallway, standing just _that_ much closer than might be considered entirely proper.

Slowly, quietly, drowning in one another's eyes.

Did she know how deliriously lovely she was?

What would she do, he wondered, if he reached out right now and caressed that stunning streak of silver in her hair that fascinated him? If he leaned down right now, placed a palm against her perfect, sleepy face and kissed her?

He clenched his hand at his side to keep from reaching for her. A moment later she yawned, and the spell was broken.

And then his knees nearly gave way as she reached out and put a hand on his forearm, giving it a gentle rub.

"Sleep well."

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes." Her hand slid down his arm and reached his own, and he returned the light squeeze before they both let go. She turned and entered her parlour; he turned and walked back down the hall.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would kiss her goodnight, and damn the consequences. But for tonight; her eyes, her smile, her touch… this would be enough.

_Tomorrow._


	2. Knowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean it. These two are ruining my life. Help. Me.

She knew the exact moment.  
  
In truth, there were a lot of little moments. Small things that were, in their own ways, hints that this was only the brief, steady calm before the fall.  
  
 _"I just don't want you to get tired."_ Lord, she could have strangled him, but she had to admit, it was sweet, the way he couldn't lie to save his life, the way he had worried for her, been so blissfully relieved to learn she was all right. But no, that wasn't it.  
  
 _"She gave me a kiss in full payment."_ That wasn't it either, but she remembered realizing at that moment what an an amazing father he would have been to girls of his own. _(They would have had the most beautiful children… but no, mustn't think that way — no regrets. Only forward from here.)_ So many moments over too many years, all building inside her until it came crashing through that day in a single moment of clarity.  
  
She had arrived home from the fair to find him with Baby Sybil bouncing on his hip, showing the child the wonders of Downton like some adoring great-uncle, and suddenly she _knew_. Without question or hesitation, she knew, and in that moment, she wanted nothing more than to tickle the child under the chin to make her coo and laugh as a pretext for getting close enough to touch him.  
  
"Oh, you're back, then," he'd said in as relaxed a manner as she'd ever heard from him. In the blink of an eye, she pictured him standing in a small cottage kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled up, fussing over a fresh pot of tea, she having returned from an expedition to the market for their dinner.  
  
That was the moment she knew she was lost.  
  
 _It's only a matter of time now,_ she thought. She'd already found herself being more familiar with him than she ever had before. More familiar and more outspoken. Standing just that much closer than before. More quick, chaste touches than usual during their hurried conversations throughout the day — such a guilty pleasure, she knew, but sometimes she simply couldn't help herself. Sparring with him verbally in ways and on topics she would never have dared before the war, before the _other_ scare. Which of them would crack first? Most likely she would, she guessed. Maybe. Maybe not.  
  
Did he know? She thought he did, and that he felt the same, but the real question was whether he would ever let go enough to do something about it. It would not be easy for either of them, especially after so long in this quiet, comfortable world they'd negotiated for themselves over so many years. But she had never taken the easy way, had she?  
  
Truth be told, that was the real reason she hadn't accepted Joe, both times. It would have all been so easy with Joe. Not the work, not running a farm, no. But hard work was hard work no matter if you were on a farm or managing a staff and a large household. No, the _relationship_ would have been easy. He knew her background, knew her family. Held the same beliefs, would have treated her like gold. _He was — he is — still a good man._ And that was it. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing difficult or trying.  Nothing to work for. Pleasant. Kind. Simple. Good. Was that enough? In her heart, she suspected not. She had always thought that the really amazing things in life were the ones that were borne out of difficulty. One had to work for the best, it didn't simply land in your lap.  
  
Her life at Downton wasn't excitement at every turn, but it certainly had its moments. It was work. Sometimes drudgery, usually exhausting. It was not easy, but it gave her freedom.  
  
He was also definitely, without question, not easy. He was difficult on a good day, and on the bad days it took all her strength not to murder him. She was no longer hesitant to challenge him, though. Lord knew, someone had to. Someone needed to help him, push him, drag him, if need be, into some semblance of modernity. No one had challenged him, possibly ever, and so that duty, too, she thought, also fell to her.  
  
And he was — he _is —_  a good man. More than that, perhaps. A man worth working for.

* * *

 _God, what a day._  
  
All she wanted, at this moment, was a soothing cup of tea while she finished looking over a few final papers. If she lasted that long. Much longer, and she'd be asleep on her feet. And speaking of being asleep on one's feet... she rounded the corner and stopped short, coming face to face with six-foot-two-imposing inches of Charles Carson, leaning against the wall outside her parlour with his eyes closed.  
  
She watched him for just a moment. It was another of her quiet, guilty pleasures, taking an occasional moment to watch him when he sometimes sat like that in his seat in the servant's hall, head back, eyes closed, taking rest where he could get it between courses, between the never-ending summons and duties. She wondered what he was thinking in those moments. He wasn't sleeping… she smiled. _No doubt counting the silver as a meditation technique,_ she thought. Her thoughts in her quiet moments could not always be described so chastely.  
  
A heavy sigh brought her back to the present.  
  
"Did you want something, Mr. Carson?"  
  
His eyes immediately opened and he resumed his typical ramrod straight posture.  
  
"I… Mrs. Hughes. My apologies. I was just… resting my eyes while I waited for you."  
  
 _Hah. Likely bet. He looks as exhausted as I feel._ "Resting your eyes. Of course." She simply couldn't help herself sometimes. He was too easy to tease. "Is the constant brightness of the electric lights still that tiring for you? I'd have thought you'd long since adjusted to it. Would you like a headache powder?"  
  
"Wretched woman with your mocking," he said, his deep voice rumbling with humour. He was smiling down at her, and she mentally marked this as another of those moments when she knew; perhaps it was written all over her face, but in this moment, she didn't care in the least.  
  
He recovered first, straightening even further, if it were possible, breaking eye contact briefly. Clearing his throat.  
  
"I was just stopping by to let you know I've finished locking up, and to see if there was anything else you needed before I turn in for the night."  
  
 _Did he just try not to yawn? Poor man._ "Thank you, but no. I think everything is as ready for tomorrow as it'll ever be." Now that she was thinking of yawning, of course, she could barely keep from doing it herself.  
  
"Very well, then," he said, finally meeting her eyes again. "I'll see you in the morning."  
  
"Good night, Mr. Carson."  
  
She assumed he would turn and leave, then, but he didn't. The seconds ticked by, and still they stood, sleepily blinking at one another through tender smiles in the dim hall light.  
  
Did he know the effect he had on her, just by his proximity? Tall, broad shouldered and so unbearably regal. Why… WHY now, after all these years — more than fifteen years in his presence daily, working in close, comfortable harmony, not thinking of him in any such way and now here she was; the man had acquired a little more grey, begun to show his age… _beautifully, damn him, he is aging beautifully, he's like fine wine, full-bodied and… oh, stop right there, Elsie Hughes. Just you stop that thought or you'll never sleep peacefully tonight._

 _"I'm young NOW,"_ he had exclaimed with all the dignity he possessed, and that had amused her. _Young, hah._ If he were still young, he certainly wouldn't be turning her head like this, would he? She silently thanked whatever deities were watching over her for the years of practice in projecting a calm, collected facade. Sometimes it was all she could do to control herself in his presence.  
  
But she wanted, oh yes.  
  
Wanted to hold his face in her hands, feel him burning, losing control under her touch.  
  
Wanted to pull him to her and stroke his hair, his face, his chest, until he broke — until all his expertly honed poise crumbled and he took her in his arms and let her _feel_. She knew there was an affectionate, loving man in there _(and passionate? yes, that too, she suspected)_ ; she had seen glimpses of it over the years, and now she wanted it for herself, wanted it for him, for all the things they had never allowed themselves.  
  
Wanted to give him a safe harbour to close his eyes and lay down his head, to give up some of his  _— their —_ burdens.  
  
She wanted him, all of him. Every infuriating, lovely bit of him.  
  
He was standing so stiffly now, hand clenching tightly as if he were holding himself back from… what? What would he do if he ever really let go? The thought made her flush.  
  
The yawn snuck up on her. She'd been so lost in her thoughts — lost in _him_ — that she could easily have drifted off standing there in the hallway. _Graceful as always, lass. Instead of drowning in his eyes, you yawn in his face._  
  
Just as suddenly came the overwhelming need to touch him. She laid a hand on his arm, giving it a light rub. It was completely improper, the way she had been unable to stop herself from doing that so often lately, but they _were_ friends, if nothing else. She would take these small liberties with him if he would permit it, and not allow herself to be embarrassed about it.  
  
"Sleep well." She let her hand drift down into his large, warm one and gave it a squeeze. _For goodness' sake, Elsie Hughes, let go of the man and go to bed._ But he didn't release her hand right away, instead returning the gentle pressure.  
  
"Good night, Mrs. Hughes."  
  
And there it was, once again.  
  
She _knew_.


	3. Trying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I don't know where this is going, any more than Fellowes does. So let's just let them be them for a bit, yeah?

By the time she made it back downstairs that night, she was less than steady on her feet. Sleep would be welcome, if only she could manage to turn off her thoughts. She sat back on the settee and closed her eyes. A moment's peace…  
  
…and there it was again, Sarah O'Brien's shrewish face swimming before her. _God Damn and blast that woman! Leaving with such little notice._ And with such a flimsy explanation. She really wanted to know the truth of it. She thought it might not hurt to have a talk with Mr. Bates — he seemed to be able to suss out behind-the-scenes drama almost as well as she could, and perhaps he knew something she didn't this time.  
  
In the final analysis, of course, it didn't matter, not really. Miss O'Brien was gone, that was that. Despite the extra work, she knew she shouldn't allow herself to be too upset about it. The woman was a shit-stirrer of the first order, and she was now someone else's problem. Surely that was a good thing?  
  
But whatever else the woman was, she had been good at her job, and finding a replacement for someone of O'Brien's qualifications was not going to be easy. While she generally handled hiring and firing of the female domestics without consultation, this was quite different — even Mr. Barrow's opinion was being solicited and considered. A new face was imminent, and the unknown was worrisome.  
  
Sometimes, the devil you know is easier to deal with than the potential one you don't.  
  
In the meantime, Mrs. Hughes was in the unenviable position of being at Her Ladyship's beck and call more than usual, if such a thing was even possible. Of all the things, at her age and position, having to now also dress the lady of the house when they were all in deep mourning. _And putting up these new hairstyles, for goodness' sake._ She had actually had to sit down with Anna for a couple late hours the previous night and — she shuttered at the thought — _practise._  
  
It wasn't that she disliked Cora Crawley, goodness no. They had worked well together running the household for nearly two decades now, through peace and war and back again. But the coming weeks promised more personal levels of interaction with Her Ladyship than she was used to, or entirely comfortable with.  
  
Frankly, the vapid small talk drove her a bit mad.  
  
Cora was a gossip. Elsie Hughes was… not. She could see now that O'Brien had had her Ladyship's ear far longer than had been healthy for anyone.  
  
 _Miss O'Brien is soooooo lucky I don't know where she is right now, that's for sure._

* * *

She slipped off her shoes, stretched out her legs on the settee, and closed her eyes again. Just a few moments of rest and she could navigate those blasted stairs, extract herself from this hateful corset and…  
  
"DAMN that woman!" she exclaimed aloud, forcefully, to the empty room, fist pounding on the back of the settee. She had been seething all day, and it had reached a boiling point. It didn't help that there wasn't a thing more she could do about it tonight.  
  
"You don't say?" She jumped at the sound of his voice. He'd poked his head around the door quietly just as she was taking out her frustrations on the settee cushion.  
  
"Oh, Mr. Carson!" She flushed, putting her feet down and sitting up straight again. "You startled me. I was just… letting off some steam. It's been a long and tiring day."  
  
"I expect it has. Although I'm not certain what that pillow ever did to you."  
  
When she snorted a laugh, it came out almost like the beginning of a sob.  
  
"Mrs. Hughes-- are you-- are you alright? Truly?"  
  
It was his kindness, the clear concern etched into his face that finally broke her, and without warning, she felt her eyes burning and the tears threatening. _Dammit. Why now? You stupid cow. Couldn't keep it together one minute longer, could you, had to let him see you like this._  
  
She felt the cushion dip as he sat down beside her. Not too close. Just close enough, but never too close. "Mrs. Hughes, I--"  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. I'm simply exhausted and thoroughly frustrated by the situation. It could be weeks before a suitable replacement is found for Miss O'Brien — whose timing, may I say, was impeccable as always--"  
  
 _And whose name she just said with an amount of venom that she normally reserved for truly special occasions,_ he noted silently.  
  
He regarded her for a moment. She sniffed. "--and you don't have anyone to yell at about it, I know. Well, it has to come out somehow."  
  
She took a deep breath. Another, more steadily still, but not quite in control yet.  
  
He handed her his handkerchief solemnly. She took it with weary gratitude. "Thank you."  
  
"It's the very least I can do. Although if you _do_ need someone to yell at--"  
  
"Mr. Carson, I won't take this out on you…"  
  
"--I should think not! No, I was going to suggest James or Alfred. I could easily come up with a reason for one or both of them to require a dressing down from the housekeeper. Or perhaps Mr. Barrow?" The corners of his mouth tugged up slightly and she knew he was trying his best to make her smile. "Well, perhaps not him. He listens to you more than to me, I'd best keep you in reserve where he's concerned."  
  
She laughed weakly now, then sniffed, beginning to pull herself together. _Stupid, stupid woman. He hates this type of thing._ But he was looking at her still, and not with the uncomfortable prickliness she'd come to expect of late. His look was… tender. It was that soft, caring smile that he so rarely allowed to show. It was unexpected today, given how he'd seemed to be pulling back recently.  
  
 _'No need to get sentimental.' Right. No need at all, said the pot to the kettle._  
  
This life. This damned, solitary, lonely life. It would be so, so nice to have someone to simply hold you once in a while. Physical contact. At times like this, she craved it so desperately.  
  
"I probably don't say it often enough-- I know I can be a cranky old thing, but I am always on your side. I do hope you know that?"  
  
"I could never doubt it for a moment," she replied with a watery smile.  
  
"I just wish I could do something to help."  
  
She sighed heavily. "Unless you fancy helping to dress her Ladyship tomorrow morning…" — his face somehow managed to convey both amusement and mild alarm at the same time— "…probably not. But I appreciate the thought."  
  
She dabbed at her eyes a final time and made to hand back his handkerchief. A large, warm hand enveloped hers, and coaxed her to close her own back around it instead.  
  
"Keep it, please. Especially if it's the only concrete thing I can do right now."  
  
She looked up and met his eyes. The tenderness and caring were so palpable, and he was still holding her hand, and-- _oh please. Please let's just stay here like this for a bit._ It was exactly this type of touch she needed so badly. So very badly.  
  
When his other hand joined the first, she hardly noticed, so lost was she in the moment. When she felt his thumbs trace light patterns over the back of her hand, her eyes closed briefly in bliss. She breathed in, and her other hand drifted up to join their clasp. She felt him breathe out with her, opened her eyes again and let herself fall into his just a bit further. _Please, if nothing else, let us have this much and never regret it._  
  
"It's not--" _Oh, lass, what are you doing? It's so good just like this, can't you leave it be?_ But she couldn't. Not any more. "It's not the only thing you can do."  
  
He hesitated slightly, but only just. "What then?"  
  
"I-- just--" she gave his large hands clasped over her own a gentle squeeze. "This. Thank you. For this. Sometimes... sometimes this is what I need, more than anything else."  
  
He looked down at their joined hands and seemed to be astonished that they were still interlocked, as though he'd completely forgotten that he'd been the one to initiate the contact. For a moment it looked like he might pull away. She tightened her hold on him.  
  
 _Such a simple thing, a simple but perfect comfort. Please don't regret this, dear man, please._ "There's nothing improper in it, Mr. Carson. Truly. And I appreciate it very much."  
  
As he registered this, he met her gaze and his face softened once more. "You take care of us all, Mrs. Hughes. I-- I worry sometimes that no one takes proper care of you."  
  
One eyebrow raised and the corner of her mouth quirked up. "Only sometimes?"  
  
"I'm afraid you know me too well."  
  
"Quite right. As you should be. Afraid, that is."  
  
They both smiled at that. He squeezed her hands once more then stood, coaxing her to her feet with him. "I know you're tired, but--"  
  
He paused. Took a deep breath. Seemed to come to a decision.  
  
She waited. _Tread softly, lass. Tread softly now._  
  
"Might I request the pleasure of your company as I do my final rounds this evening? Just a quick last check that everything is locked up, and then I'll be turning in."  
  
She was surprised when he then offered his arm, as if he were going to escort her to the village or the fair instead of simply a few feet down a deserted corridor. She found that she wasn't as exhausted as she had been a few minutes ago.  
  
"I-- I'd like that very much." She took his arm with both hands and he led the way out of the room. Side by side, they leisurely made their way down the corridor that they walked hundreds of times a day, in the direction of the back door. This was silly, she knew. They both _knew_. But for now, perhaps it was the best they could do.  
  
 _For now._

* * *

"I'll be alright, Mr. Carson. One day at a time, like always. I just have to make it through tomorrow."  
  
The fingers of his free hand curled around hers on his arm as they walked slowly together. "Tomorrow, then. WE will make it through, yes?"  
  
She glanced up at him. _Hopeless, lovely, impossible man. Was he? Could he? Maybe. Just maybe he's trying. Tread softly._  
  
"You know, I think we might, Mr. Carson. I think we just might."  
  
"As will your defenseless cushions, I hope." She chuckled at that. They continued their slow stroll down the hall like a couple out walking in the park.  
  
He leaned down to her and whispered conspiratorially, "You know, I'm not half-bad with a pen… perhaps a drawing of Miss O'Brien's face so that you have something more satisfying to aim at?"  
  
She swatted his arm and finally laughed properly, prompting a sly smile from him.  
  
 _Yes. Yes, I think we just might._


	4. Meddling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems this fic just wants to occasionally fill in little moments. So be it. This has been brewing since early S4, and now we're almost to S5! Goodness. Perhaps it's time for a little catching up (but let's just discourage the notion that there might be anything approaching regular updates right up front, yeah?)

_Infuriating, meddlesome woman!_

He stood stiffly, hands behind his back, watching her retreating form.

_An open wound,_ she'd said. _Better to stitch it up and let it heal,_ she'd said. What the bloody hell did she know about it? Nothing, that's what. She knew nothing about it. Only what she could find out by snooping.

He'd meant what he said a few night ago. He really did not understand her. Oh, he understood her need to unearth secrets about those around her. It was one of the things he'd always admired, envied a little, even, that she had that knack for getting to the heart of others' problems. It was one of the things that made her so exemplary at her job. But now that her radar of curiosity was focused on him, he was starting to re-think his admiration for this particular personality quirk.

Blast it all, it was a matter of _respect_. He had told her, flat out, that she had no business prying into his affairs with Grigg. So what did she do? Took it as a challenge and went the whole hog. Retrieved the sorry bastard from the workhouse, invoking his own name in the process. And then she brought Mrs. Crawley into the mess on top of it. It was almost beyond intolerable.

Isobel Crawley he could manage. The divide between upstairs and down had its advantages. Mrs. Crawley had always been more willing than average to push that boundary, but she wouldn't go beyond a certain point. But Elsie Hughes, well. Not a chance. She was probably the only person alive who would dare push her way this far in to his private affairs. And he had no illusions that any of this was really Mrs. Crawley's idea. No, this was one-hundred percent _her_ , from the moment she'd seen his reaction to that letter and gone rifling through his bin.

Charlie Bloody Grigg. He had dealt with this, years ago. He was _done_ with it. And now here came Elsie Hughes, saviour of the downtrodden and irredeemable, occasionally nosy to a fault, agony aunt even to the firmly unwilling, dredging it all back up.

_(The workhouse, though, that thought had pained him. To imagine that with just the smallest twist of fate, it could have been him in there. She knew it, too, knew enough of his past to recognize how close he had been, had he not come to his senses and gone another way.)_

_Well, that will teach you, old boy,_ he fumed silently. _Open yourself up a little and look where it gets you._ He'd let her get under his skin and wrap herself around his heart and now there was no escaping her, especially when she was on a mission. _  
_

He allowed himself to simmer until she was well out of sight. Eventually he sighed, and his posture relaxed.

_Ah, but that's not what's really bothering you about this, it is Charlie? It's not really Grigg that's the issue. It's not even —_ he closed his eyes, the name he didn't want to think about forcing its way up through — _it's not even about Alice._ When he'd dealt with Grigg before the war, they had actively avoided that topic altogether, never even broached it. No, the thing really bothering him wasn't that he was being forced to face all that past unpleasantness. The real problem here was about what he wanted from Elsie Hughes.

Among all the things he wanted and had begun to hope for as his feelings for her had started to evolve, there was one thing that had remained constant. He wanted — no, _needed_ — her respect. Yes, he had also wanted her friendship. In his more contemplative moments, he had silently but actively begun to hope for more than that some day. (Her _companionship_ — the thought made him flush). But underlying all of it, there was always a firm grounding of mutual respect.

What he did not want, though, was to be a focal point of one of her bloody projects, all full of good intentions, Christian charity, a smattering of pity and a healthy dose of mothering. Yet somehow, here he was. And worst of all, she was right again, dammit. She and Mrs. Crawley were meddling busybodies, but they were right. Making amends with Grigg and seeing him off to Belfast with a handshake and words of good will was the right thing to do. No matter how painful, it was right. It would finally be closure.

Dammit.

So, what to do? Dig in his heels for the sake of pride? Or extend a hand, and take her lead through the murky waters?

_Tomorrow._

He would decide tomorrow.


End file.
